


Born in the Dark

by Measured_Words



Category: Changeling: the Dreaming, Webercon Whidbey Island Changeling Game
Genre: Amnesia, Arcadian Sidhe, Chrysalis - Freeform, Fae & Fairies, Fledgeling Fae, Gen, Nervosa, Nightmares, Nockers, Sidhe, Trolls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-21
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:21:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23238388
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Measured_Words/pseuds/Measured_Words
Summary: Trolius's Chrysalis.
Kudos: 6





	Born in the Dark

It was weird to be in the studio when there was no one else around, but that was the whole point. Marcia wanted him to record a new demo reel, and Amy had offered to get him in late at night when no one was using the place and he wouldn't have to shell out for the rental fees or worry too much about how long he had. Tomás had slammed back an energy drink before he'd left his place, but he'd felt jittery all day. Probably it was just nerves. The demo wasn't for anything in particular, but he still felt a lot of pressure to put together something good – something that showed that the work he'd been putting in the past few months was worth it.

He turned the lights on in the office and the hallway, but it didn't really help. It was too dark outside, the colours seemed off, and the glare of the fluorescents off all the glass made his eyes hurt. The air-conditioning kicked in, adding an eerie hum that just served to highlight how quiet everything else was. He was still warm from walking in from the parking lot, and the cold air felt extra chilling.

The sound booth at least was the same as ever, though the nerves only seemed to get worse as he stepped inside to do the equipment check. Tomás pulled out his phone to look over the scene list again, but thought he heard something out in the hall. Had he not closed the door all the way? He pushed it open, but there was nothing but the humming of the AC and, if he listened very closely, the ticking of a clock.

"Hello?"

No one answered his call, so he closed the door again, this time more firmly. It was starting to feel warm in the booth, but he shivered again regardless. Maybe he was coming down with something – or that Monster he'd had wasn't agreeing with him. It would explain the jitters, and the headache, and how warm he still felt. Just fucking great. His forehead felt hot against the back of his hand, and he'd started sweating. He could just get some water, maybe he would feel better, or at least well enough to power though whatever this was. The booth was starting to feel oppressive, anyway.

He felt dizzy as he stood to open the door, and dazzling lights flickered in his vision. Then he heard it again. It sounded distant, though it couldn't be coming from anywhere but inside his own head, but the words had been almost distinct.

Tomás staggered into the hallway, and this time he heard it much more clearly. But maybe it was his own voice…

_help me_

His head felt like it was about to split open, and this was joined suddenly with a sharp stabbing pain in his side. Tomás balled his fist and held it against the pain, thinking vaguely that maybe it was his appendix or something, but he felt a wetness. Through the stars, he could see red on his hand, on his shirt, the floor where he'd fallen…. Everywhere around him… He screamed, and then everything went black.

* * *

Sir Evie Anson looked up at the monster towering over the doorway. "Fuck," she said, drawing her morningstar. St. Jerome, beside her, was already firing from his arm cannon, shaking his head as the creature turned its nightmare gaze from the poor sod who'd spawned it towards the pair of them. She was very glad of her armoured brace as scythe-sharp talons scratched down the pavement where she'd been standing moments before. "Call for back up?"

"Nah." Another blast hit the creature full in the face, eliciting a deafening screech. It reeled briefly, but then its head split open, blackened skin sloughing back around its neck like a cowl, bony grin and spiteful red glare focusing on the nocker. "Uh. Maybe."

St. Jerome, gangly though he was, rolled away from the next attack with surprising grace, but it wasn't quite enough to clear the talons, and he cried out as they sliced through. Anson let out a war cry of her own and charged. A silvery halo erupted around the head of her weapon that built up in intensity as she rained blows down on their foe, faster and stronger by the moment. 

By the end of the fight, they were both bloodied, though the creature's dark red ichor was evaporating into a noxious grey smoke. Anson buried her face in her cape, coughing and leaning on the wall. St. Jerome activated his ventilator mask until it cleared, and he pulled out the med kit from his utility pack while she recovered. Once the air was clear and wounds given emergency care, the pair looked around.

"Okay, so where's the fledge?"

"Better be worth it." St. Jerome's equipment was damaged, and he'd had to convert one of the canons into a grenade before it exploded and took off his arm. Still, Anson rolled her eyes.

"You know the Count will reimburse you. Come on – they're probably inside."

"Yeah? Well, watch yourself. Could be more bullshit."

The glass door to the studio had been shattered in the fight, though she'd lost track exactly of when. Inside it was dark, even when she flipped the switch in the lobby. "Power out?"

St. Jerome snorted. "You wish, sir lady."

She sighed, concentrating a moment and reciting a few lines from Thomas's "Light Breaks where no Sun Shines", so that the head of her weapon burst into a fiery glow. At least they'd have a shot if there was anything else lurking in the dark. Everything reeked of nightmare and despair. The glamour, though still plentiful, felt as heavy and sharp as a blade.

St. Jerome followed cautiously after her, some kind of monocle covering his left eye. "Down the left," he whispered when they came to a crossroads, and Anson followed his direction. She could sense they were getting close to the center of things, but was concerned about what they would find. Maybe some confused Thallain – she'd never dealt with one of their Chrysalises before. She almost hoped it was that.

Shadows fled before her light. She could hear them skittering, and almost catch the shape of them as they melted away. Fortunately, they didn't seem inclined to make trouble, though as she neared the end of the hallway they became thicker. For a moment she could almost make out some kind of tableau, but she blinked and they'd moved again, dispersing slowly from where they'd been covering a form slumped against the wall.

"Oh fuck." She rushed forward, St. Jerome right behind her, and crouched down. There was a concerning amount of blood on the floor, but it was still too dark to see what was wrong. "Did we lose them?"

"Not yet…"

Anson reached down, bringing her light closer. She reached out to touch the fledge's neck to feel for a pulse. His head rolled back, and his eyes flickered open, meeting hers – and the darkness cleared as he drew a shaky breath.

He was a sidhe, there was no question. Arcadian – as the shadows retreated, there was an undisguisable luminescence to the glamour still radiating from him. She glanced back at St. Jerome, who was keeping his distance and scowling. The new fae's hair was a vibrant purple that bled into his mortal seeming, as were his eyes, which were trying to focus on Anson.

Anson ignored the nocker for the moment, hoping he would at least continue to watch her back. "We're here to help. Where are you hurt?"

He gasped again as if uncertain of his ability to answer, and touched a hand to his side. It came away bloody, but the red evaporated, as the shadows had, or the nervosa's ichor, as the Dreaming withdrew from the Autumn world.

"I…. I don't…."

"It's okay." She tried to sound reassuring, though that was strange. Maybe the glamour had healed him? If his injury had just been part of the nightmare, though, it didn't seem that the same was true of her own. He seemed on the verge of panic, so she reached out and took the hand he was still staring at, giving it a careful squeeze. "What's your name?"

"I…. I don't remember."

Behind her, St. Jerome muttered something she didn't quite catch, but his tone was uncharitable. The fledge's gaze flickered past her, though and she wondered by the stricken look on his face if maybe he had.

"Ignore him. It's not personal. You _are_ safe now." Everything seemed to be settling down, at last, so she hoped that was true. "Can you take a deep breath for me?" 

He nodded, following her directions. His breathing was still shaky, but that seemed more nerves than pain, and she helped him stand so she could look him over and confirm. "Do you know what I am?"

He looked back over at her, confusion clear. "A… troll?"

"That's right." She paused. In some ways he was as bewildered as any fledge, but her appearance didn’t seem to frighten him. His confusion must have some other source. "Do you know what you are?"

The panic clouded his face again. "I don't remember," he repeated. "I don't understand. How do I know that? What-"

"Get it together, kid." St. Jerome snapped, loud enough this time for them both to hear. He crossed his arms, still frowning. "You’re in the Autumn world now. Gonna need to do some adjusting, whatever you remember."

"What?"

"It's okay," Anson repeated calmly, refocusing his attention on her. "Do you remember anything? Just take a minute. Breathe. Think about it."

He nodded, closing his eyes again. Even his eyebrows and eyelashes were a dark violet – that was going to be inconvenient for him, no doubt. "I was…here. At the studio…" His forehead creased and his eyes flashed back open. "Tomás! My name is Tomás Rosario de Luna and I…" He faltered again. "Is that right? It doesn’t feel right."

Anson set her hands on his shoulders. "It's complicated." Usually, she'd give them the speech about their faerie soul awakening – about them still being the same person, but also something more. That wasn't exactly true here, though. From what she understood, Arcadians often maintained their sense of self, but were disoriented by their new surroundings. This was not that, and she didn't have any scripts prepared that seemed to fit. "That's part of who you are, but my companion is right. Things are going to be an adjustment from here on out – I know it's really overwhelming right now, but we are here to help. Do you believe me?"

Tomás looked her over, growing quickly concerned. "You're hurt…. Both of you. What happened?"

"There was a monster," St. Jerome answered dryly. "We killed it."

"I didn't… see anything… I just…everything went black and I thought I was dying…"

"We're all safe, Tomás," she said firmly. "But we should get out of here. Will you come with us? We're going to take you somewhere that we can explain things better, where you can process what's happening, and where someone can look you over and make sure you are really okay – and us too. Okay?"

"…okay."

She gave his shoulders a squeeze. "Great. Then come on." 

Tomás followed along willingly enough, but she had to coax him down the street. He was as distracted and overwhelmed as any fledge, but it wasn't wonder she read on his face. Usually they had more questions, but by the time they'd arrived at the crosswalk near the garage where St. Jerome had parked, he had fallen completely silent. She'd caught him staring at his own reflection a few times, and he was now pulling a lock of hair down into his face for a look. Amazingly, he managed not to walk into her, or St. Jerome, or anything else, before they reached the van.

"Get on in then." St. Jerome had also been quiet, if a bit grumbly, and he opened the back of the van without much ceremony. There were seats, technically, but it wasn't exactly street legal. Mostly the nocker used it to stash his gear when he wasn't working on it, and there were spare parts and tools crowding what little space there was for people.

Tomás froze, his violet eyes going wide, and Anson felt another shimmer of dark glamour.

"It's okay," she said, trying to sound reassuring. "We just need to get to the freehold."

He shook his head, stumbling back a step, and the sodium lighting took on a nightmare shimmer.

"I can ride in the back with you," she offered, hoping to nip this little glamour relapse in the bud before they had another nervosa on their hands. The first one had been bad enough. "It'd be cramped, but you wouldn’t be alone."

"I can't – I c-can't go..."

A swirl of dark shadow swirled out of the back of the van, obscuring the normal interior. St. Jerome had the sense to slam the door shut, which put a quick end to whatever had been happening.

"What the fuck!" He scowled at Tomás, who still barely seemed to register what was really happening around him.

"It's not his fault." She still took him by the shoulders and gave him a gentle shake. "Hey. Stay with us."

"I can't breathe," he gasped, "what's hap-happening."

"What's happening." St. Jerome frowned deeply. "What's seven times nine?"

"What?"

"What's the fifth planet from the sun?"

"It's okay," Anson interrupted, keeping her hands on the kid's shoulders. St. Jerome's questions had had the intended distracting effect though, and confused him enough to shake his thoughts free from whatever had been distressing him. Now it was just the physical aspect that needed managing. "You're having a panic attack. Just breathe with me. Do you need to sit down?"

Tomás nodded, and she sat with him on the curb by the van, talking him through getting back control, while St. Jerome kept his cranky watch in the street. Anson knew he had his reasons to be wary of sidhe, but she also knew that he wasn't unreasonable – this kid was too new, and really too pathetic to hold responsible for any past wrongdoing by his kith. Whatever he might be once he got his feet under him, right now he was lost, confused, and desperately in need of help. She knew the nocker realized this because he hadn't ditched them yet.

After a while, Tomás's breath evened out. He sat quietly on the curb, hugging his knees. Anson only realized he was crying when he tried to surreptitiously wipe his face on the sleeve of his jacket. This part was worse than the fighting though her shoulder still ached.

"Look. I know everything is scary and overwhelming. You're not alone. We all go through…. Well, we all go through something like this. We're creatures of dreams – and not all dreams are nice. There's a lot of nightmares in the world right now, and I think that's what was strong enough to carry you here. I'm sure it was rough.

"I don't remember. I don't even know what any of that was about. I just…"

"It's okay." She was starting to feel like a parrot. "Do you think you could ride up front? You need to rest. We’ll take you somewhere you can do that, with people who can look after you. There's a lot of things you are going to need to sort out, but you don't have to do it – any of it – tonight. Okay?"

He sniffed and nodded, though he looked determined. Determine to do what, she wondered – sleep? Survive? Sit in the front seat like a big boy? It was uncharitable, but she wasn't having the best night either. Her nerves were fraying too, and it was probably for the best that her part in this transition was almost over.

"Okay, then, come on."

They did manage to make it to the count's holdings, and she handed Tomás over to the staff there. They would take good care of him, but it was time for a well deserved soak, and a restorative rest of her own.

* * *

The bedroom he'd been given was the nicest he'd ever stayed in. Everything was immaculate, but still homey, like the sort of thing you'd find in a TV ranch house from some 50s western. Currently he was standing in front of the gold-framed mirror. He was exhausted and should have gone to bed, and he'd planned to, but here he was.

The face that stared back at him did not belong to Tomás. But Tomás's life was the only one he knew. It felt like remembering something that had happened when he was high – distant and disconnected. The rest was a void. He could feel its absence, though his missing past had left its mark. He knew things – he'd recognized the kiths of the fae who'd come to his aid. He knew what a sidhe was, and that he was one. He understood, theoretically, what a Freehold was. He knew the Escheat. He didn't know where he'd learned any of this. Everything was uncomfortable – even his body felt wrong, like it was physically constrictive. And it didn't match Tomás's memories either. Even beyond his hair (all of it! Purple!) and eyes, his skin was too clear, his features were a little more even. And that was just his mortal appearance. Count Everett had told him that he had what was called a 'slipped seeming', that it was unusual but not unheard of for a changeling's appearance to bleed over that much, and that he was, as a sidhe, pretty lucky, as it could have been worse.

Staring wasn't helping anything, not really – it was just a point of focus. He felt terribly alone. The boggan woman who'd led him to his room after his brief audience with the Count had very politely confiscated his phone, and now he understood why. He would have been tempted to reach out to his – to Tomás's family, and anything he said to them would have sounded crazy. She'd promised they would help reach out, but insisted he needed rest first.

Rest. She was right. The troll knight and nocker from earlier that night had been right. Everyone who told him he needed to rest was right. He stripped down to his boxers and took another moment to examine the changes in the mirror, stretching out the time just a little longer before crawling into the bed.

It was very comfortable. The sheets were crisp and clean, and the pillows were exactly how he liked them. He still resisted closing his eyes as long as possible.

He didn't know where he'd come from, or who he was, but he knew that the nightmare he'd left behind was still there, just waiting for him to come back.


End file.
